Mr. Joyce Takes on the World

Plastic Lilacs It rained the night before my mother’s funeral. I had both seen and met Lindsey Stirling for the second time that night. That’s another story—one that included a mention of my mother by Sister Stirling, while in concert. She dedicated the song Take Flight to her memory that night, for which I’m greatly touched. I recalled that it rained the previous time I saw Lindsey. But this time I was escorted by the first of many viceroy butterflies. They would follow me for the rest of the summer—whether in America, or across the pond. They seemed to guide and comfort me. I’ve written about them before, yet they continue to mystify me.              Melanie, a friend from university, came to pick me up that morning. She had one of her children with her—the youngest boy, about a year old. He looked at me, as we sat in the funeral home parking lot. I had been all nerves on the way over, and now young Segin was onl...

Dear Mom,             It’s been a month since I last spoke to you. I’m sorry for that, but as you know, I’ve been busy. I’ve moved twice, switched jobs, and completed another term at university. Though I spoke to you just the other night, it wasn’t a proper conversation. There’s a lot I’m thinking of this Christmas.             First, it doesn’t feel like Christmas. Not just because the snow has melted. The mood just isn’t there. It hasn’t been for some time. At least the temperatures are mild, and the roads are clear. You’d appreciate that.             I keep having memories to previous Christmas Days. I remember gifts I’d gotten—like the blue dinosaur sleeping back when I was nine. I remember other things too. Every Christmas, you’d put a Mad Magazine , a Medieval or space Lego kit, and a Lifesavers Book i...

“I Will Carry You.”             How do we reaction when those we love are suffering? Do we give them advice? Do we tell them the perfunctory, “Everything is going to be okay?” Or, do we say nothing, and instead, listen?            Pain is just one part of being human. While suffering can be a great teacher, it doesn’t feel as such during the suffering. I also feel that few people will want to share the suffering of a loved one. Instead, people pretty much try to distance themselves from it. I feel that to survive the suffering, one must lean into it, and perhaps even embrace it. That sounds counter-intuitive, but it allows one to exorcise the suffering by “riding it out.” This is the suffering that comes to us, not the suffering that we make. That kind of suffering is discussed later.               Since Ch...

Welcome to Stratford-Upon-Avon                       “Henley street is up there, sir. Shakespeare’s birthplace is on the right.”                        I only had to ask, “Where is Henley Street?” The town tourism guide knew exactly why I was headed there. I thanked him, and found that Henley street was only a few paces from where I stood. I had no trouble finding Shakespeare’s childhood home.                        On my right stood a large Tudor house. As you can see in the photo, it’s lovely, and yet humble. Much as the King of Kings was born in a stable—the king of all authors was born in an upstairs bedroom of this unassuming house. The wood bracing gives it a charming look, which I’ve always adored. One of my ...